


Track 1: Where the Shore Ends

by orphan_account



Series: The Island of Misfit Toys 'Verse [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Explicit Sexual Content, Humanstuck, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Student/teacher relationship, The Island of Misfit Toys 'Verse, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, everyone is sad, no one is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and you are a fucking rock star.</p><p>Your throat feels raw and your tongue is numb and too thick in your mouth. You’re panting with exertion. Fuck yeah. Eloquent. You try again: <i>fuck yeah</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Track 1: Where the Shore Ends

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to [secretyandere](http://secretyandere.tumblr.com) and [alovelyhamsteak](http://alovelyhamsteak.tumblr.com) for editing!

**= = > Be Dave**

 Your name is Dave Strider and you are a fucking rock star.

 It’s a Friday night and The BetaKids have just finished playing their final set at _Oberon_ , the bar two blocks down the street from Southland Academy of the Arts, your school. As you and your friends exit stage right with what instruments you can carry into the wings, the crowd—comprised of fellow students, parents, and most importantly, your brothers and girlfriend—erupts into  another cheer, a few voices rising above the roar. Your throat feels raw and your tongue is numb and too thick in your mouth. You’re panting with exertion. Fuck yeah. Eloquent. You try again: _fuck yeah_.

 Rose slips her guitar to her hip and smirks at you, and that’s all she needs to say. Her hair is iridescent in the stage light, it’s like she’s glowing, she’s so bright. Kanaya runs to her, backstage lanyard flung over her shoulder, and they embrace, Kanaya smacking a wet kiss on Rose’s cheek. She smiles at you grasps Rose’s hand. You watch them leave, Rose leading her out the backdoor and into the parking lot. You’ll see them later.

 The girls (groupies, Rose calls them, without malice) who had been dancing on top of the concert speakers climb onto the stage and approach John. He’s packing up his keyboard, but he stands when he sees them. You can hear their voices—distantly as if through a tunnel— compliment him and TBK. He grins and winks at the blonde in satin pants. They offer to help him, but he politely declines and they leave.

 You wait for John behind the curtain, arms crossed over your chest. Production and Design kids rush on stage and start dismantling the drum kit and rolling wires. They’ll return most of the equipment to campus storage, making clean-up a breeze for you and the rest of the bands that played tonight. People begin to file out of the front doors, leaving behind a mess of half-eaten burgers and empty beer mugs. Jordan, your temporary drummer, rushes past you in search of his girlfriend. He raises his hand for a high-five, which you dutifully return. Good guy and a good drummer, but he doesn’t really fit in TBK. It’s a running joke among you, Jade, Rose, and John that you’ll spend the rest of your career searching for the right drummer.  

 John shoulders his keyboard and jogs to meet you.

 “That was fucking great!” he yells. The clatter of plates and the clutter of conversations are dying down. Your ears are still ringing and his voice sounds disconnected. John claps you on the shoulder and you return his splitting smile. You’re running high on adrenaline, dopamine coursing through your brain, dripping from your fingertips. A mallet is clasped in your hand. You’d used it to beat the living shit out of the marching band drum while performing ‘Falling Planets’. You can still feel your arm vibrating.

 “You did well,” you tell John, drawing it out like the wise, sagely man you are. Kid learned everything he knows from you, more or less. He was amazing tonight, hitting every note, rising and falling with the music, every press of the keys synching with yours and Rose’s voices. You could kiss him right now for his sweet, _sweet_ solo during ‘Heartbeats’.

 Jade appears from the restroom. Her bass is strapped across her shoulders still and she holds the neck to prevent it from slipping as she grabs cold water bottles from an ice chest on the floor. Sweat glistens on her forehead and a laugh bubbles from her when she sees the two of you. You know she feels it too, the high after an amazing gig.

 “Here,” she says, and tosses you and John each one. John cracks his open and drinks deeply. You press yours against your forehead. “Do y’think your Bro will let me hang out at the apartment?” Jade asks. You shrug. “I dunno. Ask him.” Her phone vibrates in the pocket of her jeans and she whips it out and smiles at the screen.

 “Dives,” she explains and leaves in a rush.

 “Where’s Rose?” John asks.

 “With Kanaya. They just left. ”

 “Oh,” John says, “We no longer have a ride?” 

“Don’t worry about. I’ve got another idea.”

 You lead him towards a group of Commercial Music underclassmen. They’re pouring over Karkat’s camera, watching the recorded performances and shuffling through his various photos.  He looks stricken. Jacobi from Rabbit asks him to delete something and Karkat nearly hisses.

 “Fuck off,” he says and John laughs next to you. Karkat takes his camera from Jacobi’s hands and switches it off and hangs it over his shoulder. The underclassmen moan their disapproval. “You’ll see them on Facebook later, _god damn_.” Karkat shoulders his way past them and over to you and John.

 “Jesus,” Karkat says as way of greeting. He’s wearing the same backstage pass as Kanaya and a red hoody. You rest your arm on his shoulder and pull him into you. “You guys were great,” he says, nonchalant.

 “Karkat, my friend, the man with the cam,” you say. “We saw you snapping away in the back and can I just say—”

 “What do you want, Dave?” His voice is thick and deep with sick and he sniffles.

 John slips his arm over yours. The two of you begin to lead him out the back door, towards his van. Realization dawns on him.

 “No, no, no, no! Absolutely not!” he yells and begins to twist out of your hold. John let’s go first and you relinquish your grip.

 “Please,” John asks, drawing out the _e_. He bats his eyelashes.

 “Don’t beg, John,” you say.

 “Shut up,” John retorts. “Maybe he’ll—”

 “I’m not driving you to Fef’s party. No. Fuck no,” Karkat says. “I’m going home to upload these photos and then I’m going to down a bottle of NyQuil and sleep until noon tomorrow.”

 “I’ll pay for your gas next week,” you say. You probably won’t. Maybe.

 “Done,” he says. “Get in the back and don’t touch any of my equipment.” Karkat pulls his keys from his jacket pocket, unlocking the doors. John slides his keyboard in and climbs up. You follow.

 “I may have promised Terezi we’d pick her up,” you say. Karkat slams his hands on the wheel.

 “No,” he says, and turns on the radio.

 “She may be waiting up front, all cold and shivery. What if she catches something? What if she gets really sick and has to be hospitalized and then who’s to blame? You. You’re to blame,” you say.

 “No!” He hisses, glaring with renewed vigor at his rearview mirror.

 “She’ll be comatose for years, oh, if only Karkat had –“

 “Fine! God dammit,” Karkat says and revvs the engine. He jerks out of the parking spot and swerves around the corner to where Terezi’s standing. She’s talking to Abbe, but waves goodbye when Karkat pulls up to the curb and slams on the breaks, sending you flying forward. John raises his eyebrows and snaps the seatbelt against his chest. You sneer and recover and slide open the door to admit Terezi.

 “Hey,” she says, and settles in the back between you and John. She kisses your cheek and licks across the seam of your lips. You smile against her skin, your nose pressed to hers.

 “More of that later,” you say. John gags. Karkat speeds up.

 

  --

 

= = > **Be Tavros**

 Your name is Tavros Nitram and you’re making a sandwich.

 You’ve just slathered the rye bread with mayonnaise and slapped on some pickle slices. You think your mom bought you tofu turkey, but you forgot to check and navigating back to the fridge would be impossible in your position. Instead, you add three pre-cut tomato slices and finish the whole thing up with a crumble of feta cheese. Best sandwich _ever_.

 You cover the sandwich with a paper towel and place it on your lap. You roll yourself backwards and out, speeding up so you can gather the momentum required to clear the ramp leading to your room. In the years since your Accident, the house has been upgraded to handicap accessible. Once inside, you slam the door shut behind you, hoping your parents hear it all the way on the second floor. They had decided last minute to no let you go to Feferi’s party. Lame. Ha.

 You place the sandwich on your desk and unfold the paper towel, taking a bite.

 Your room is square and white, but you’ve decorated a little since your family moved from Connecticut four years ago, just so you could attend Southland. A Dizzy Gillespie poster is taped above your bed and broken vinyl records from the thrift store tile your walls. An eclectic stack of CDs are piled in the corner: Modest Mouse, Bombay Bicycle Club, Pixes. Your guitar sits in its hard case leaning against your hamper. You consider taking it out and jamming until you feel tired enough to climb into bed and sleep, but you’re full of energy. You aren’t sleeping anytime soon.

 The orange and blue curtains that cover the French doors in your room are slightly parted. It isn’t until you move to pull them closed that you realize your door is open, just a crack. A cold breeze forces its way inside and brushes across your face. The door creaks when you push it out.

 A cement path leading from your room forks into two different lanes. One lane takes you to the garage and the other precedes the backyard. You push yourself forward and roll onto the path leading to your mother’s garden, backing up to close the door behind you. The night is quiet, not even the crickets dare chirp. A bird flutters overhead and you freeze, watching it hover above the branches of a willow tree before settling. A fountain statue of a Rubenesque woman pours gray water into pan of stone roses.

 The gazebo is empty. The fairy lights hanging from the gazebo’s rafters are twinkling in the half-light of dusk and cast everything in a soft, burnt-orange shadow. You’re not sure why you’re outside anymore. Your dad probably went through your doors to access the backyard and forgot to close it when he came back in. You turn yourself around.

 “Hey Tav.”

 If you could, you would have nearly jumped out of your chair. But you know that voice with it’s gravely intone and lazy inflection.

 Gamzee is standing on the path in front of you, twirling his car keys with one finger. He’s wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and an unlit joint is stuck behind his ear. Judging by his slower speech and red eyes, you surmise that he’s high. Nonetheless, he’s grinning.

 “Fuck, Gamzee,” you say, rolling up to him. “You scared me there.”

 “Sorry bro.” He smiles down at you. “Wanna ditch?” he asks.

 “And go where?”

 “The party. I know your ‘rents are keeping you under lock and key tonight. Let’s screw those motherfuckers right in the ass.”

 You consider this carefully, but only for a moment. “Uh, okay.”

 “Fuckin’ sweet,” Gamzee says, and steps up behind you, rushing you out to the curb through the side gate. His red jeep is parked a few houses down, hopefully out of sight and earshot of your parents.

 “You cool to drive?” you ask. He’s capable, even while high. He’d driven the two of you to the Catskills last April, completely stoned. It’d been a fun day.

 “You wanna try, man?” he says. You scoff.

 “Yeah, uh, right,” you say. He unlocks the car and opens the passenger side door.

 “Don’t sweat it brother, you’ll get your license eventually. They make special cars for that kind of shit. We’ll figure it out.”

 Gamzee lifts you out of your chair. Your arms automatically come up to wrap around his shoulders, his wild hair tickling your skin. He places you in the seat and folds up your chair, storing it in the backseat. You buckle up and pull the door shut and Gamzee climbs in beside you, starting the car.

 You’ll be missing that sandwich soon, but fuck if this isn’t worth it.

 

  --

 

**= = > Be Eridan**

 Your name is Eridan Ampora and you are currently slamming it up on stage in assfuck nowhere town, population: nonexistent.

 The spotlight is heavy on you, pinning you against the stage. A drop of sweat runs down the nape of your neck and the gel in your blond hair is giving out, strands falling out and dangling against your forehead. It’s been a long day, a really fucking long drive up from Southland, but finally, you’re here and you’re speaking:

 “ _I guess what you don’t expect is that sixteen will taste like pomegranate seeds and you’ll spend Saturday nights in your room wonderin why no one seems to notice or care that you’re miserable and you’re thinkin ‘I’m lonely please love me please’ while you check your phone every three minutes for some kind of sign from god or a satellite that someone in the world gives a damn about you—”_

 Fourteen people tonight, sitting in ivory wooden chairs, sipping coffee from recycled cups, checking Facebook on their smart phones. A group of three girls are watching you with rapt attention, nodding along or cringing in supposed understanding. They don’t know how you feel. Doctors can’t treat brain tumors efficiently enough to prevent muscles from atrophying after months of idleness because no one is born with the same brain. No one ‘understands’ you because it’s not possible. Even you don’t know how they’re feeling, but you can imagine it’s worshipful and phony.

  _“—and I guess what you don’t expect for sixteen is that you could be so eager to experience everythin and so desperate to die at the same time and I guess what you don’t expect is that sixteen can feel like six and twelve and twenty-five and eighty-seven some nights—”_

 At the front of the stage, in a row of three chairs, Mariana, Jen, and Daniel stare up at you with listless eyes, or out the window behind you, composing sestinas and villanelles in the quiet of their head. They’ve heard you perform this piece before. It’s nothing new to them. You feel powerful on stage, though taller than them, even though you are naturally taller than almost everyone in your school. You hunch, but not up here.

 Ms. Porrim, the coach of _Sink/Swim_ and your mentor, is sitting in the far corner, her notebook open and her pencil resting between her thumb and forefinger. The surface of her lidless cup of coffee vibrates with every tap of her toe against the table leg. She’s watching you, following your movements, keen and sharp. You’re angry, this poem is about being angry and young and you want to convey that to her and anyone else willing to listen.

 " _—and sometimes you’ll jaywalk and hope you get hit by a car but you still slammed on those brakes when the truck driver moved into your lane and I guess what you don’t expect for sixteen is that your life will seem so tame and so out of control at the same time and I guess that you feel this way because this is not the world that you expected but you don’t know very much—”_

 A man sits in the corner of the room nearest the restroom. You hadn’t noticed him before, but he’s there, face half-submerged in shadows. The streetlamp outside flickers on and illuminates him and you see he’s dressed in an immaculate suit and has a cup, like the others, but it’s empty and coffee-stained and he’s torn it apart and laid it flat. He’s drawn on it, swirling pictures of faces and spotlights in bright green sharpie.

 The man’s head is tipped back and his eyes are closed. You think he’s sleeping.

 “ _—and each day you spend learnin you feel like you know even less and so you spend a lot of time readin and writin because you’re a physical person and things don’t feel real until they’re tangible, which I guess is why you’re so bad at feeling loved when you’re alone and why you want to shrink inwards like a mornin glory at dawn every time someone touches you and why you fall in love with every boy or girl who kisses your neck and tells you you’re beautiful and why you’re still scared of thunderstorms even though you’re too old to be—_ ”

 You wish your friends were here. You long for Feferi’s shining face, the flashing red light of Karkat’s video camera in the back, Nepeta sipping chai tea and smiling at you, encouraging and comforting. They couldn’t make it; Feferi had informed you yesterday at school. She’s hosting a party tonight, in honor of MONTAGE finally coming to a close after long weeks of late night rehearsals. You get it. Sort of. No, actually you don’t. You can’t comprehend why they couldn’t come and support you because this? This fucking stings. You’d thought long and hard about which poem to perform and how to perform it.

 You feel alone on this stage, bereft and abandoned. Your words are empty and you want to hide, you want to get out of the spotlight and lock yourself in a restroom stall and run a blade across the chicken scratch of your thighs or press your mother’s curling iron to your ribcage, because Feferi didn’t even _invite_ you. Her words ring in your head, an overlay of the words you’re speaking: sorry, I can’t make it, I’m throwing a party with a couple of friends, sorry again. And she knows she’s the only reason anyone else ever comes to your stupid slam poetry performances.

  _“—and I guess what you don’t expect is that sixteen could be so wonderful and so horrible all at once_.”

 You finish to the polite clapping of your team and Ms. Porrim. The three girls snap their fingers. You roll your eyes and hop down from the stage. Mariana stands and fixes her skirt. She steps up and starts her piece, spittle flying.

 You sit down across from Ms. Porrim and watch as the man in the corner rolls his head forward and opens his eyes. You realize he’d been listening the entire time, letting your words wash over him. He looks right at you and smiles.

   

 --

 

= = > **Be Vriska**

 Your name is Vriska Serket and you’re currently hooking up with John at Feferi’s party in the Jacuzzi out back.

 It’s good. You’re straddling him, the water bubbling up between you. You’re fumbling with his dick, palming it clumsily and he’s rubbing his hands up and down your sides. Your hair is wet and plastered to his bare chest and shoulders. You’re both in nothing but your underwear.

 His lips move hot and insistent against yours. You kiss and nip his smooth jaw and Adam’s apple. He’s doing that thing where he presses his mouth to each of the freckles on your shoulders. The little breathless moans he keeps making are driving you crazy with want.

 It’s good, but it hurts because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know you’re going to regret this. You’re regressing again, crawling back to him. Everyone’s bound to see you and get the wrong idea. It’s easy enough to clear the air with a smile that’s too much teeth and a flippant remark about the size of John’s penis, but each time you make excuses, people believe you a little less.

 Irrelevant. This feels amazing! He surges up against you and shoves his face into your neck, whimpering. You’re both buzzed, alcohol and lust coursing through your veins. Everything around you is moving in slow motion, like they’re trapped in honey. But then there’s John, who’s this focal point where every part of you that’s touching him meets and speeds up and he tips his head back, licks his lips, touches your hips and gazes up at you with a gentle, affectionate expression. You squeeze him brutally tight and he comes and clenches his eyes shut. Maybe it’s because he can’t bear to look at you.

 It’s good, it hurts, and it’s over too fast.

 You climb off of him and he stares at nothing, his tan skin flushed a cherry red. You’re caught, frozen in place. Stuck.

 So you escape. You wink and haul yourself out of the hot tub, water sluicing down your body. You grab your slightly damp blue jeans and Die Antwoord T-shirt and dress quickly. Your feet are still wet, so you stuff your socks into your Dr. Martens and clasp them in your right hand.

“Later, sailor,” you say, saluting him, and start towards Fef’s house. You need to get out of here now. The pool is full of half-clothed party-goers, sipping beer from red cups. Kegs are lined up against the backyard fence, probably provided by Feferi’s college friends, who are crowded along the deck, legs dangling over the sides and into the water. Tiki torches flame in tropical planters and along the perimeter of the lawn. The sky is moody overhead, threatening poor weather. Steam rises from the surface of the water and from your too-hot skin. You can’t get John’s stupid orgasm face out of your head, so you think about other things instead.

 You’ve got rehearsal for _The Crucible_ on Sunday and your mom won’t be home until tomorrow. She gets off work at eleven and then she’s going out for drinks with Tommy. He’ll drop her off in the morning, hopefully in one piece. She’ll stumble out of his car, one shirt sleeve hanging off her shoulder and her hair a mess. She’ll wave goodbye to the exhaust pipe of his truck and smile crookedly at your window. You’ll watch her limp her way through the front door and listen to her put the kettle on the stove—

 Someone shoves past you as you’re about to step into the house and sends you slamming into the sliding glass door. Sharp pain cuts through you. You recover quickly and turn to find Terezi standing in front of you.

 “What the fuck!” you yell.

 She’s poised to flee. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glisten and she is looking right at you. People are starting to notice. You glance at their curious faces, gaze flickering from hers.

 You’re reminded of _that_ night. Screeching tires, metal crunching, Terezi’s screaming. You shudder and goosebumps spread across your skin.

The moment ends when she turns to run again. You watch her recede into the woods behind Feferi’s house and consider following, but you remember yourself then and remember what you are to her, and shrug. The people around you relax and life goes on.

Karkat, the little pissant, was watching you the entire time, his eyes hooded by his furrowed brow. You glare daggers at him and he goes back to minding his own business. As you’re walking away, you hear him mumble, “crazy imbecilic bitch,” under his breath. You ignore him.

You can’t imagine why anyone would go into the woods at night a _lone_ , but you don’t particularly care. Her boyfriend’s bound to be around here somewhere.

Speak of the devil. You spot Dave as you make your way to the front door. He’s running down the stairs, but stops when he sees you.

“Have you seen Terezi?” he asks.

You point over your shoulder in the general direction of the backyard. He thanks you and leaves. You don’t particularly care what he’s done, but you hope he finds her and apologizes. The last thing you and your friends need is a war in which everyone chooses sides and you’re all divided. When you and John broke up…

Suffice to say, it blew.

You pull your socks and shoes on, watching Karkat as he brightens when he sees Dave and you fight the urge to laugh. Dumb fucking kid.

You grab your coat from the closet on your right, house keys jingling in the pocket, and leave. It’s a short walk to the bus stop— at most a mile— but it’s enough time to clear your head and make up excuses for yourself to justify your desperation.

 

\--

 

**= = > Be Aradia**

 Your name is Aradia Megido and you are currently purchasing a box of Trojan condoms from a CVS.

 An older woman is in line behind you and you can feel her eyes boring holes into the back of your head. You can tell that the young man the register is trying not to laugh as you stare down at your hands, a blush spreading up your neck.

 “Is that all?” he asks. You nod, think better of it, and grab a Snickers bar from the display. They’re Sollux’s favorite. You pay with your debit card and the cashier double bags the items for you.

 You hurry out as fast as your legs will carry you. Your car is parked at the far end of the lot, hidden from view by someone’s massive truck. You unlock the doors, climb in, and shove the key into the ignition and your car roars to life, sputtering as the engine turns over. You put it in reverse and screech out of the parking lot. Feferi would be laughing her head off at you if she could see you now.

 Sollux’s residence is around the corner, so it’s a short, shame-faced ride. You pull into the empty driveway of the Captor’s modest, three rooms, one-and-a-half bath house and turn off the engine. Sollux is waiting at the window of his living room, watching you walk up the cement path to the door, CVS bag in hand and your purse slung over your shoulder. You smile at him, but he does not smile back. He disappears from sight and unlocks the door for you. You turn the knob.

“Hi,” you say, stepping inside. He’s not waiting for you in the entryway, but the light in the kitchen is on and you can only assume.

Sollux is sitting at the granite island and his computer is, for once, off. His back’s to you and he’s hunched over, hands resting on his knees.

“Sollux,” you say, approaching. You set your purse and the bag down on the counter. He doesn’t acknowledge your presence.

“Sollux,” you repeat, resting your hand on his shoulder. He flinches from you, shaking your hand off. “Talk to me,” you say. You come around to the other side of him

“They’ve been gone for three hours, AA,” he says, eyes downcast. “Mom won’t answer her phone and Dad’s is on his nightstand.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” you soothe. You place your hand on his cheek. “They just went out to dinner. They’re probably seeing a movie or something.”

“No,” he says, finally looking up at you, glasses askew. It looks as if he’s been crying. “She always answers my calls.” He’s rubbing his hands up and down his legs, a nervous tick.

“Can I—” you ask, reaching around him. He leans into you, letting your arms hold him upright. He weighs nothing, like paper, a stark contrast to your modest build. “Why don’t you wait a little and see what happens. We can try calling her again in a half an hour.” 

Growing up, the two of you had been inseparable. Your mothers had known each other in college and had remained friends since. Frequent play dates and outings had bred familiarity. When you noticed that Sollux was different from the other kids at school, more isolated, often angry, you hadn’t really questioned it. It wasn’t until sixth grade that his paranoia really set in and he’d had fits of depression and anxiety so severe he’d hurt himself purposely—throw himself down a flight of stairs or disappear for hours, sometimes days.

“Did you take your medication today?” you ask. You know he doesn’t take them sometimes, hides them in the broken, exposed pipe underneath the sink in his restroom. He hates the way they make him feel.

“Yeah,” Sollux says, nodding against your chest. He pushes you away and wipes his hand across his face. “Yeah I took them.”

You sigh and stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head, then his cheek, his lips. He doesn’t respond, but he watches you.

You thought tonight would be the night, but you guess not. He’s in no state for anything remotely sexual and sometimes you think he doesn’t even know you’re dating. Everyone else knows it, accept the one person who truly matters to you.

“I’m gonna go to the restroom,” you say. “We should watch Breaking Bad.” He nods and gets up from the stool.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” You grab the Snickers bar from the plastic bag and hand it to him. He brightens.

“Thanks,” he says, lisping his ‘s’.

You check the pipe in the restroom and find a week’s worth of pills, even the ones he’d told you he’d taken today. You fish them out with your hand, a sopping mess of orange and swirly white, and flush them down the toilet and sit on the freezing, tiled floor with your head in your hands. You stand and splash your face with cold water, fix your hair and smile at your reflection. You could cry.

Sollux isn’t in the kitchen when you return to confront him. He’s not in the living room either, or his room, or any of the rooms for that matter. You start to panic and run back into the kitchen. His half-eaten Snickers bar rests on the ground. The box of condoms has been removed from the bag and sits forlornly, unopened on the countertop. There are dents in the cardboard, vaguely finger-shaped.

The front door is open and a draft blows through the house straight to your heart. You shudder.

 

\--

  

**= = > Be Karkat                           **

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you really hate parties like this.

The heavy scent of weed smoke and beer plays at your senses, aggravating your already stuffed-up nose and you’ve been sneezing since you got here two hours ago. You’re leaning against the wall closest the back door and you’re bored out of your fucking mind.

Red cups are passed from hand to hand as people grind and twirl on a makeshift dance floor in the center of Feferi’s living room. The house itself is sprawling with, what you estimate, a billion fucking rooms. From the backyard you hear people splashing about in the pool, shouting and cheering one another on like it’s a game of who can fuck up the most in one night. You can practically hear the bad decisions as they’re being made. A glass shatters. Someone giggles.

Sollux has been texting you for the past few hours, the content varying between insults and fretting over his parents absence during their old people’s date night. You have plans to spend Saturday night with him, playing Go! in his living room and catching up on _Game of Thrones_.

Kanaya and Rose are macking on a couch in the sitting room. Actually, many couples are hooking up in rather public places. You want to throttle them. The heady scent of hormones and poor choices are making you feel, if possible, sicker.

You could leave. No, that’s a fucking lie. You can’t leave. You’re trapped here, bound to an evening of distasteful teenager copulation and the stench of vomit, at least until Dave and Company are ready to go. Feferi confiscated everyone’s keys the moment you walked inside. It’s a precaution you all accept and accede to because of last year’s traumatic event that none of you talk about. Ever. She subjects drivers to a breathalyzer, and, if she deems you too inebriated to drive, she’ll lock you up in a room for the night.

Her mom is gone for the weekend, as far as you know. You could care less, really. It’s her head on the chopping block if anything happens anyway.

You spot Dave’s dazzling blond hair approaching you from across the room. He is a beacon of light, a glimpse of hope in the otherwise tumultuous sea of writhing bodies. You know you look like an unattractive asspimple right now, but you push yourself off the wall, try and look a little less drab and a little more dapper anyway.

Dave doesn’t notice.

“Have you seen Terezi?” he asks. He looks harried and his speech is slurred. You can smell the sticky-sour scent of rum on him.

“She just ran out back,” you say. It’s true. She’d run past you a few minutes ago, colliding with Vriska on her way out. Vriska, bless her heart, had been bitchy and awful about the whole confrontation.

He sags, his shoulders dropping as if he’s bearing a heavy weight. The aviators, normally cemented to the bridge of his nose, slip down. You can see his eyelashes and you’ve always wondered what they’d feel like brushing against your cheeks.

“Why? What’s going on?” you ask.

The façade returns. He stands straight again and smirks and it’s astonishing how good he is at the whole putting-himself-back-together thing. You want to help him, whatever it is. You’ll do anything.

“Nothing, Karkat, don’t worry about it, man,” Dave says. He puts his hands in his pockets. “Go home. Get some sleep. Sorry for dragging you along.”

“I’m your ride,” you say. So, yeah, you wish you were home, but you don’t just want to abandon your friends, least of all Dave.

“I’ll find someone else to take me,” he says.

“But—"

"Seriously.” His hand comes up to squeeze your shoulder. “Don’t sweat it,” he says and swaggers out the backdoor, eyes searching the crowd.

 You are invariably worried about him.

 And you’re definitely not taking off. Not a chance. You huff and consider following him, but decide instead to find a room to lie down in. A curved staircase takes you to a hall of closed doors. The first few you try and either locked or contain copulating couples. You want to barf. At the end of the hall, you find an empty, dark room with a single bed and generic furniture. The door doesn’t have a lock, so you prop the desk chair underneath it. You set an alarm on your phone for twelve and hope that a good couple hours of sleep will take the edge off of your flu and fatigue. You know that the party will probably end well into the wee hours of the morning. You climb on top of the cool sheets fully clothed and try to ignore the sound of the music from beneath you.

 Fucking Striders.

   

**\--**

**= = > Be Equius**

Your name is Equius Zahak and you’ve just returned home from a bittersweet contemporary warm-up class.

It was bittersweet because your favorite ballet instructor, Mr. Hans, is retiring. He had made the announcement of his retirement prior to the end of term. You’d known him since freshman year and he’d taught you so much, but you understand why he’s leaving—his body’s getting older and the most he can do now is offer you these final, simple classes. You’ll take what you can get.

The class itself was mainly populated by the younger members of the corps de ballet, hoping to get back into shape before auditions and rehearsals begin for Swan Lake. Thanksgiving break ended a week ago and the whole conservatory’s quality has lessened. Family meals and inactivity— you’d fallen victim to these simple pleasures too, so you believe you need the ease of contemporary class, if only to improve your chances during auditions.

It was better than you dared hope, but you still found yourself sweating like a pig. You’re scheduled for a pas de deux on Monday with the new instructor, who you’ve never met. Mr. Hans had pulled you aside and confided in you that, while she was a lovely dancer, she was a little sloppy. He promised to email your entire conservatory before midnight.

You and your Dad's heated loft is a great big welcome home and it eases your frazzled, nervous feeling concerning your new dance teacher. You can hear him clattering about in the kitchen and the smell of Kushari makes your mouth water. It’d been a cold trip home on the train, your sweat pants and tights doing nothing to protect you from the chill. Luckily, a friend leant you their Southland sweater. Your hair is pulled back and neatly tied.

Upon entering, you knock over the vase of tulips your dad got his boyfriend for their anniversary with your dance bag. It falls to the floor and shatters, glass shards and water exploding outwards. Oops.

 “Good evening, Equius,” your father says, his thick, Arabic accent booming out of the kitchen. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture is permanently on repeat in your head and the muscles in your legs twitch from exertion.

 Your dad appears from the kitchen, carrying a dust pan and broom.

 “Father,” you greet.

 “Go and prepare for dinner. I will clean up this mess,” he says.

You nod and take your bag to your room and drop it on your desk chair. You slide the mouse of your computer across the pad and the screen lights up. Nepeta’s been pestering you.

 

\-- arsenicCatnip (AC) began trolling centaursTesticle (CT) ! --

AC: :33 hey eq i was wondering if i could photograph you on monday during conservatory  
AC: :33 fur figure painting of course hehe  
CT: D- -> Hi  
CT: D- -> That would be fine  
CT: D - -> I will have a new dance teacher then  
CT: D - -> I am uneasy as to their level of skill, but perhaps I do not need to be  
AC: :33 < pawsome! are you going to fef’s party tonight  
CT: D - - > I don’t believe so, too tired  
AC: :33 < aww get some rest then  
CT: D - - > Will you be in attendance?  
AC: :33 < hardly my ''''scene''''  
AC: :33 < id much rather be at home on tumblr  
CT: D - - > I understand  
CT: D - - > Have fun, I suppose  
CT: D - - > Goodnight  
AC: :33 < nighty night

\-- centaursTesticle (CT) ceased pestering arenicCatnip (AC) ! --

You log off. You walk on leaden legs to your bed, but as you're about to collapse on it, your computer pings. You have a new email. You drag yourself back to the screen and open it.

 *

 From: zachary.hans@saa.org

 Sent: Friday, January 09, 9:37 PM

 To: equiuszahak@smail.com

 Subject: NEW BALLET INSTRUCTOR

 --

 Hi all! I’ve just met with your new conservatory teacher, Ms. Damara Megido. She’ll see you all in room 102 on Monday for conservatory hours. You can view her staff profile here.                                                

                                                             I will sorely miss all of you. Good luck!                                                                                   

                                                                                                 Mr. Hans

 *

 You spend the next few minutes scanning her profile, until your dad retrieves you from your room for dinner.

 

  

  --

  

= = > **Be Terezi**

 Your name is Terezi Pyrope and you’re running far, far away.

 Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck _fuckfuckfuckfuck_! Why did you even say anything, what the fuck is wrong with you?

Oh god. He’s right, though, isn’t he? He’s so fucking right.

Your head is spinning. You’re past the point of inebriation and you’re stumbling along a beaten path surrounded by thick foliage that keeps tripping you up. You’re floating in the nebulous space of your mother’s supposed Nothingness and daddy’s God Within. Where is He? You keep searching, but you can’t find Him. He’s not there. He’s never been there for you.

 Your foot catches on a tree root and sends you sprawling. You lie in the dirt for a moment, breathing deeply. Then you turn over and stare up at the clouds. It’s begun to snow. You close your eyes.

  _Fuck._

 

_\--_

 

**= = > Be Nepeta**

Your name is Nepeta Leijon and you’ve just reached six hundred followers on Tumblr.

 Last night, you uploaded the sixteenth page of _Something Wicked_ , your action/adventure webcomic that’s amassed a modest fanbase. It loosely draws its roots from the happenings and shenanigans at Southland, with a few major alterations to ensure the anonymity of your friends.

 Your readers follow the misadventures of sophomore student Nip and her best friend, Ike, as they battle demonic English teachers from Hell, pretentious classmates, and the devious, ever-present entity known as the Principle. You’d be lying if you said Nip didn’t embody your struggles at Southland, minus the epic fight scenes and romantic entanglements, especially with Eq— Ike! You mean Ike!

 Sigh.

 

\--

  

**= = > Be Dave**

 Your name is Dave and you are a complete fuck up.

You don’t look for Terezi because John messages you. He’d been with Vriska in the hot tub when he saw Terezi run out into the woods. Being the gentleman he is, John went after her. He’d found her in clearing a few hundred feet in, lying on the ground.

EB: she says she doesn't want to talk.  
TG: tell her i am sorry  
EB: she won't answer me.   
TG: what do i need to do?  
TG: what does she need???  
EB: she keeps shaking her head.  
EB: and saying fuck fuck fuck.  
EB: i think i should take her home.  
TG: johhnnn  
EB: dude she's really upset and it's cold as balls out here.  
EB: how much did you two have to drink anyway?  
TG: shots of jaeger a few beers we have been here since seven what the fuck do you think egbert?  
EB: i'm just gonna call a cab.  
TG: you got fare?  
EB: dad gave me some money this morning.  
TG: ok  
TG: i'm sorry  
EB: she says it's okay.  
TG: but she doesn't want to see me?  
EB: :(

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist[EB] at 24:43 --

And then you remember:

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 24:44

TG: her bag is with karkat  
TG: so is your keyboard  
EB: is karkat still here?  
TG: his van is out front  
EB: ask him to bring it by tomorrow?  
TG: i guess

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist[EB] at 24:46 --

It’s too dichotomous for words. You’re torn in two and you’re not sure what’s going to happen next. Your mind is clouded as you stagger through the party, searching for Karkat. You’re not sure if you want him to take you home or cry on his shoulder. Gamzee waves at you from the den, an unlit joint hanging from his lips and you nod back. He takes a hit, faces Tavros, and blows smoke into Tavros’ parted mouth. You think you see the top of John’s head at some point, towering over the crowd, so you veer around the corner to the stairs and stumble up, ducking your head to keep out of sight.

 Reacting the way you did, you can understand why Terezi would take off. Even now you can barely wrap your head around what she’s told you. Your mind struggles with it, grasping it, but it eludes you, slipping away like tendrils of smoke. You know it’s bad, it’s awful, horrible, a down right shame. Like a storm cloud, it shadows everything and you can’t think straight. You keep seeing her face though, her open, trusting expression, and then, the betrayal, the fear, the anger…

 You reach the landing and stumble blindly into a room at the end of the hall. It’s not locked, but something’s blocking it. You shove and it opens a little wider. You use your shoulder, throwing your body into the door. Something creaks on the other side. You shove and keep shoving until—

  

**\--**

  **= = > Be Jade**

 Your name is Jade Harley and you have the best boyfriend in the whole world.

 You’re lying in his bed, naked. Clothes are strewn around the room. Your pink bra hangs off of the sword display above his dresser. Warmth spreads outward from your stomach, pleasantly heating your whole body from the inside out. You’re sweating, you’re sated, your hair’s mess. You smile up at the ceiling.

In the bathroom connected to Dives’ room, the slow sound of the trickle of the shower washes over you. Light spills out from underneath the door.

Your phone vibrates in your discarded pants’ pocket. Right now, you could just roll over and sleep, but you promised your grandpa you’d be home before midnight. It’s a quarter past eleven and he’d said he’d text to remind you.

  Rising, you begin collecting your clothes and dressing. Grandpa’s message simply reads, “Half hour.” You get the memo. Dives still hasn’t come out of the bathroom, but the shower’s stopped. You enter without knocking and find him standing at the sink in a towel, shaving his three-day-old stubble off. You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle. The bathroom is lit only by a dim, overhead lamp. His glasses are off and he meets your gaze in the mirror and smiles gently.

 “Hello,” he says.

 “Hi,” you reply shyly, stroking his chest and flat stomach. His hair is damp and flat and you kiss the fringe at the back of his neck.

 “You need to leave?”

 “Yeah.”

 Dives is Dave’s older brother by a year, the middle child of the three Strider boys. You’d met at Gala last March, a couple weeks after the conception of _The BetaKids_. It’d happened gradually, your relationship with him, and it’s been the best three months of your life.

“Wanna take the bike?” he asks.

"My bass—”

 "Will be fine. It’s in Bro’s car.”

You smile into his shoulder. “Okay.”

While he dresses, you wait in the kitchen. A stack of shiny brochures partially hidden by a box of Pop-Tarts on the dining room table catches your eye and you can’t help but to snoop. The brochures advertise colleges, the pages filled with shiny pictures of clean, green campuses and cozy libraries. USC, Berkeley, Whitman, all schools on the west coast. Your heart drops.

 “Ready?” Dives asks, appearing from the hallway. You shove the brochures back into a stack and fold your hands over your lap. Dives' glasses are back on, but you see his eyebrow arch.

“Mhm.” Dives hands you the extra motorcycle helmet he bought two weeks after you started dating, when you discovered that being on the bike with him is exhilarating.

 He drives you home and you cling to his middle, wind tossing your hair every which way. You try not to think about the college brochures.

  

\--

 

  **= = > Be Sollux** 

 Your name is Sollux Captor.

  The water is grey, grey, grey and the tide washes in and out like a metronome. It’s snowing, but the earth is still too warm after an Indian summer and it doesn’t stick. The sand is soft and cold beneath your bare feet, like the pinpricks of a numb limb. Dark clouds overhead prevent even the barest hint of moonlight.

  You stare out at the horizon, lit by the radiance of a midnight sun and towering oil rigs, standing unwavering, dotting the water like shimmering islands. Steadily, you walk forward, getting closer and closer to the water, until you feel the first lick of frigidity. You’re standing right at the edge, right where the shore ends and the sea begins. Your thoughts are like sailboats, splitting apart and drifting away with the rush of the ocean.

 And your thoughts are a rush, one long running commentary on how she was in and you were out, running away, away again without any idea of where you were going, but somehow you’ve ended up here, heart pounding, sweating, so so nervous. You squat and wash your hands in the cold water, scrubbing at the skin between your fingers and on your knuckles. You feel used, shamed, dumb. Ceremonially, you clean the cuticles of your nails. The tide goes out, returns. You splash the frozen water all over your dirty face and plunge your hands back in again. You are trying not to think about Aradia and how she wants something from you that you’re too afraid to give her, could never give her. You feel obligated because she’s been there for you always, but you’re terrified, running scared.

 You don’t want to think about having sex with her, about having sex with anyone or letting anyone see you naked or touching them and hurting them or letting them hurt you. You don’t want to think, period. Just want to feel your skin go numb.

  

\--

   **= = > Be Karkat**

 Your name is Karkat and something that is definitely not your alarm wakes you up. Blearily, you lift your head and watch as Dave pushes his way inside, crushing the chair. He keeps shoving it, splintering the wood. You scramble out of bed and rush over to him.

 “Dave!”

 He doesn’t notice you, not really, just collapses in the doorway. You huff in exasperation and bend to help him inside the room. With your foot, you shut the door behind the two of you, stepping over the ruined chair. You lay him on the bed, face up. His shades have slipped down his face completely and hang underneath his chin. Gently, you pry them off and fold them up. You place them on the bedside table next to your phone. You silence the alarm before it has the chance to go off. He groans and turns over and you pull his shoes off of him. He mumbles something into the mattress.

  “What?”

  Dave rolls over and faces you.

  “I’m such a fucking idiot.” He sounds sad and bitter.

  “What happened?” You sit on the bed next to him. At Dave's silence, you add, "You don't have to tell me."

  “No, no no I-- Terezi told me— she’s been,” he tries and throws a hand over his face in frustration. “She’s been lying to everyone.”

 "Oh” you say.

 You and Terezi have been at odds for years because, well, you’ve been crushing on Dave since you’d been partnered with him in Biology, freshman year, for a project on mitochondria. He’d been this quiet guy in the back, always wearing those douchey shades and when conservatory classes started, carried his guitar or his god damn electric violin with him everywhere and smiled at you when he saw you at his shows and that was that, the line between ‘crushing’ and ‘devastating’ blurring into a single meaning. It’s been you, him, and John ever since and you’re so lucky to know them. Bonfires, study sessions, midnight movie premiers, road trips, jumping from the bridge into the Southland Bay on summer days, Christmas parties; before Dave and John, you hadn’t been sure you’d get this—friends, parties, the whole shebang.

 You think Terezi knows, but she’s never said anything about it to you. You wish you could like her because she lives like a fucking house on fire and has the most raucous laugh and tells the best jokes. She’s amazingly talented and everyone worships her and she is just so fucking humble and genuine. After Tavros’ accident, the worship died down and people stopped talking to her. You don’t just paralyze a friend from the waist down and remain blameless.

 If you were a different person and not Karkat Vantas, perhaps you could like her, but you like –maybe love— Dave and she has him and you don’t. It sucks; everyday it sucks and it’s painful to watch them together. It’d been painful to watch Terezi and Dave dance around each other for months, and then you’d stumbled across them kissing backstage nine months ago, while Nick’s band, Die&Dine, played The Smashing Pumpkin’s _1979_ onstage.

You’re not a selfish person. Maybe if you were, you’d have a chance with him. He’s never even looked your way though, is probably not even gay. Maybe if you were _special_ he would love you, love you the way he loves Terezi. He doesn’t owe you anything and he doesn’t know he’s hurting you, but you’re bitter and jealous and it’s an old wound that never closes properly and is constantly being opened anew; it aches.

 “Oh,” you repeat and you don’t ask any more questions, just reach out and touch his arm because he’s shaking, trembling all over. It must be bad if he’s reacting like this. A part of you soars at the thought of their impending break up. You tamp it down, extinguish the flare of hope that surges through you. You’re a huge piece of shit.

  “She left with John,” he says, and then, “I don’t know what to do.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 You lay down next to him and he turns to face you. You can smell the sour stench of alcohol on him, his sour breath puffing against your face. It’s not at all pleasant, but you’ll take what you can get.

 You stare at each other in the dark, until Dave puts a hand on your waist and pulls you into him, presses right up against you from thigh to forehead. You don’t know what to do, just freeze up and stare, wide-eyed. Your breaths come shorter and shorter. Dave kisses you then, presses his lips against yours, insistent and needy. You stay stock-still, and then you realize what is happening, revel—only for a moment— in the warm, wet line of his mouth, and you draw in a breath through your nose, grasp his hair and yank him back. He goes without a struggle. The rabbit-quick thumping of the bass on the floor below you matches the beating of your heart. Dave looks at you, looks and looks and looks.

 He turns over eventually and lies motionless. You listen to the sound of his breathing even out. The taste of him is on your lips and you can’t stop wetting them just to try and remember what it had felt like because you’re probably never going to get that again.

 Dave tasted of everything you would ever need.

You must fall asleep at some point.

  

\--

  

  **= = > Be John**

  Your name is John Egbert and you’re sitting in the back of a cab.

 Terezi’s in the passenger seat, sleeping with her head resting against the door and her breath fogging the window. She’d been silent the whole ride home and hadn’t even looked at you when you helped her out of the forest. Trails of mascara stain her cheeks from when she’d been silently crying. There’s a crumpled tissue clutched in her fingers. You just want to make sure she gets home safe.

  The cab driver was polite enough to not ask questions, simply asked for the address and started driving. You watch the numbers on the dashboard steadily increase and worry about the amount of money in your pocket covering the cost of this ride. You stare out the window, watching storefronts and streetlamps pass by.

  You’re not entirely sure what to make of the situation between Terezi and Dave because you honestly have no idea what’s happened. All you know is that they were both drunk and said awful, hurtful things to each other. It’s happened before, of course, especially after what happened in June last year when they were fighting all the time and you’d thought that surely they wouldn’t last, but they did. No couple is perfect, least of all Dave and Terezi.

  And you’ve always liked her. She’s great, she’s fun, she didn’t become some crazy, possessive girlfriend and try to steal all of Dave’s time. The rare occurrences when you’d hung out alone together had been perfectly not-awkward and that’s all you can really ask for. When you’d been dating Vriska, she did avoid you, and Dave told you Terezi didn’t trust her, that Vriska and her had been involved in the accident together and had been friends before, but didn’t come out the same after.

 It’s like all of your friends have divided themselves along this idea of ‘Before&After’, see things from Before as so much worse than they are now, in the After, when everyone got a little smarter and more independent and less self-destructive. You don’t know why they do that because everything from before seems better, back when you and Vriska had promised each other always. Everything after the accident and your subsequent breakup is sort of a jumble of one night stands and failing math grades.

 “Stop the car!” Terezi yells suddenly, startling you out of your reverie. The cab comes to a screeching halt and you lift your head. Terezi unclips her seatbelt flings the door open and rushes out. She slides on the slightly frozen street, but regains her footing. You follow her.

  “What?” you yell, “Terezi! What?” She’s stopped a couple feet in front of you, crouched down next to a pile of blackened snow.

  “Someone,” she pants, “in the snow.”

 You come up behind her and realize that the pile of blackened, mushy snow is in fact a ‘someone’ who is lying face down in a gutter outside of a Rite-Aid, one block from the beach. 

  You reach out and roll him over and are met with the wet haired, blue-lipped face of Sollux Captor. He lies motionless in the snow, glasses misplaced and barely breathing.

 Terezi looks up at you.

 

  **End of Track 1**

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr [here](http://motordives.tumblr.com)
> 
> the poem Eridan recites is [sixteen](http://rosencrap.tumblr.com/post/41582427552/sixteen) by my friend [Paige](http://rosencrap.tumblr.com) (with her permission i swear)  
> 


End file.
